


Styx

by Kitschgeist



Category: Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: Gen, Inappropriate Humor, M/M, Mythology References, Open to Interpretation, meta themes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-12
Updated: 2018-01-12
Packaged: 2019-03-03 02:25:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 723
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13331526
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kitschgeist/pseuds/Kitschgeist
Summary: “Coin for the ferryman,” said the man, coolly. He let it fall onto the crate. It made a short, dull clatter at odds with its golden sheen.





	Styx

Of the crowd that had jostled their way off the omnibus and dispersed in every direction, only a gaunt, middle-aged man with an incongruously patrician bearing remained standing in the cold wind. He looked to his left. A bootblack had set up shop along the pavement - not a boy, as many were, but a man. He approached him and put a foot atop his well-worn wooden crate.

“These new, guv? They ’ardly need a shine,” said the bootblack, as he readied his tools. “’Course, I ain’t complaining.”

“Thank you,” the man said absent-mindedly. “Yesterday, I had someone lick them.”

The bootblack hesitated for a moment too short. The man flinched in realisation after a moment too long.

“Ah, it’s you,” said the man.

“You would have shocked some poor stranger with that?” said the bootblack. His accent slipped mid-sentence, betraying the fact that he had only recently taken up the persona.

“I feel one becomes entitled to little indulgences and amusements as the end draws nearer.”

“You’re right about the end,” the bootblack sneered. Despite the unusual course of their conversation, he finished polishing the man’s shoes as any other of his supposed trade would have done.

The man bent down to offer him a sovereign. He squinted up at him with only marginally less incredulity than a genuine bootblack would have had.

“Coin for the ferryman,” said the man, coolly. He let it fall onto the crate. It made a short, dull clatter at odds with its golden sheen. It landed tails-up, displaying St George and his dragon frozen in eternal victory and defeat.

By the time Sherlock Holmes stopped inwardly seething enough to look up from the coin, Professor Moriarty had already walked out of sight.

 

  
Night had fallen, and a foul-smelling fog gave an unholy halo to every street-lamp. Most souls had already retreated to their homes, but Holmes gazed at the murky waters of the Thames as he walked alongside it. From the corner of his eye, he saw a lone figure coming towards him.

When their paths met, they stopped. The man was not a smoker, based on Holmes’ sweeps of his rooms. But tonight, he puffed on a cigar. A waft of its smoke reached Holmes. It was a rare blend - another desperate indulgence.

“You have it wrong, Mr Holmes,” said Moriarty. Holmes did not ask what ‘it’ was.

“It may be said that I am the centre of certain circles, that I conduct their motions,” Moriarty continued. “But what about us? Do you count yourself among those ranks? Do you think us equals?”

“With both respect and regret, I believe we are equals,” replied Holmes.

Moriarty tapped away the ash from his cigar. “I disagree.”

“I hope I can soon convince you otherwise.”

“Your assumption is mistaken. I do not think myself above you. If you can bring yourself to care, consider this perspective - it is you we less sainted beings gravitate towards. I live in the hope that you may die, Mr Holmes. That is my purpose. Please take it as a compliment,” Moriarty said, with a polite chuckle.

Holmes’ smile did not reach his eyes. “That is not how I see it.”

“I should be so lucky to share that view,” Moriarty said mildly. “But I trust you agree with this - it is both or none.”

“I swear it will be so.”

Moriarty briefly put a hand on his shoulder with unnerving gentleness. “If you survive this, you can survive anything.”

Holmes strode forwards and away as soon as he could. He did not look back. If he had, he would have seen Moriarty remain exactly where he had left him, standing by the riverbank. Unconsciously, Holmes picked up his pace. If he had not, he would have noticed that his hands were trembling.

It was all very well to speak of choosing one’s end, of claiming triumph in the absurd quest to own one’s fate. But it was altogether different to watch the first traces of stygian fog obscure home shores with no comforting promise of a return trip.

These thoughts tormented him, as they did all mortals. As he proceeded, he paid no heed to the hollow metal fob on his watch-chain. It had hung there for years, but its contents had recently changed. Inside it, not one, but two sovereigns clinked.


End file.
